


Laughter Lines

by Quanna



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Hero Worship, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quanna/pseuds/Quanna
Summary: The Doctor is not a hero. Yazmin Khan, at thirty-five years of age, finally learns to stop seeing her as one.Or: the one where Yaz had a Curse of Fenric moment, and the Doctor is caught in the aftermath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the first ever ongoing fic from yours truly; in which we will hopefully explore the whole “yaz is a police officer with a strong moral code and also hero worships the doctor who is sort of kinda like a vigilante with her own code and has so much power and influence over those around her and how do you combine those two” thing. Can’t promise it’s going anywhere, much less that it will end up finished, but thought I’d give it a go. Title from the song of the same name by Bastille, as I’ve always thought it’s got a bittersweet, Whoish tone to it. 
> 
> trigger warnings for individual chapters will go in the notes at the top. Buckle up and wish us luck.
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: 
> 
>  
> 
> Panic disorder, little bit of violence, telepathic Doctor/TARDIS codepence; all mild and nothing explicit or viceral. my usual really.

The Doctor hits the floor with a thud; elbow crashing into the metal grating of the console. She hisses and presses herself flat against the floor, waiting for the turbulence to subside. Something seems to be trailing them, and she has spent the past twenty minutes trying and failing to get a grip on the controls.  the TARDIS has long since declared it safer for everyone to fly autopilot under these sort of circumstances, and right now is doing her hardest to shake off whatever has got her riled up. The console lights flare in irritation and The Doctor grits her teeth, feedback echoing through her head. 

_ Focus. _

“Sorry,” she mutters, words muffled against the grating. “You can get through it, I know you can. Right here if you need me.” 

The ship answers with a wail of frustration, lights flaring. A pipe bursts overhead and steam rushes out, a high-pitched whistle adding to the cacophony of sound in and around the Doctor’s head. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breath, willing her hearts to stay calm. Panic doesn’t help in these sort of situations, especially not when one is psychically linked to the entity in distress. 

The ship lurches violently, practically pitching sideways and ramming the Doctor into one of the pillars surrounding the console. Instinct takes over and she curls up defensively at the foot of the pillar, clutching her head where it connected with the TARDIS in an audible  _ thunk _ . 

Her heartsbeat thundering in her ears, she screws up her face and mentally reaches out to her ship. 

_ Whatever it is, you’re bigger and better than them.  _ At least, that’s the sentiment she’s going for. Things get lost in translation and she’s not exactly in the best headspace right now. The TARDIS gives one last, earth-shattering shake, then materialises by slamming herself onto the first available square meter in the physical universe. 

 

The Doctor opens her eyes, taking a second to assess the damage. The ship is clearly hurt: bits of console room are strewn about the space and a bright liquid is trickling down from a gash in the ceiling a bit further down. The Doctor unclurls herself, stretching her arms out and regretting it immediately when a sharp pain shoots up from her right elbow. Black spots swim in her vision when she tries to stand and she spends a few moments hunched over; trying to get her bearings. The TARDIS has already started self-repairing, her psychic presence slipping from the Doctor while she redirects her attentions elsewhere. The Doctor presses a dirty hand to the pillar next to her, relieved at finding the pulse of her ship’s engines still running underneath.  

_ Hurt and lost and confused _ -

_ -but alive _ , she sends back firmly, wincing as she maneuvers her arm to her side. Then, aloud: “I know how you feel. Would love to know what was chasing you, though.” 

The TARDIS’ only response is a sudden, thick, dark cloud of smoke erupting from the central console, cloister bells roaring to life from the depths. Within seconds the console room is completely obscured, the Doctor bent over gasping as the smoke gets in her lungs and eyes. Under the siren echoing round her head the Doctor can make out a clear and urgent “ _ GET. OUT.” _

 

She runs, panic taking over. Just outside the doors; her vision goes completely black and she collapses, narrowly missing a rickety wooden coffee table. The doors lock shut behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: sensory overload, panic attacks, prosopagnosia.

The Doctor comes to with a violent lurch, pitching over the side of the sofa she’s on and scrambling blindly into the corner between the wall and the Tardis. Gritting her teeth against the ringing in her head, she knots her fingers together and presses them against her sternum, dimly aware of a familiar figure watching her. The room won’t stop spinning and with the rest of her preoccupied by a psychically induced sensory overload, she cannot afford to keep her eyes open for long. 

Compartmentalise. overload first, familiar figure second. 

Gradually, she eases the pressure on her sternum, forcing her pulse back down to its steady double beat. Her fingers find the hem of her coat sleeve and she tugs at it, focussing on the fabric in her hand and the weight of it on her shoulders. The TARDIS shell sits cold but solid against her side, digging into her already painful elbow. Familiar Figure mercifully keeps their distance, even taking a step back to give her more space. Gradually, the room stops spinning and her eyes stay open of their own accord. Familiar Figure is slim, average height, has brown skin, short hair, but remains annoyingly nameless. Stupid sluggish overloaded brain.

“Sorry,” The Doctor says, voice rough. “Big wobble there. TARDIS is still dealing with it but I should be fine now. Where am I?”

“Doctor?” The figure holds out a ringed hand in her direction and suddenly something clicks in her scrambled brain.

“Yaz! Recognise those cuticles anywhere. Where has all your hair gone?” 

Yaz inches closer, crouching down on in front of her. “Doctor, are you ok?”

“Peachy,” the Doctor replies. “Hope I didn't break anything on my way in. I'll fix it if I have, please tell your mum and dad.”

Yaz sits back on her heels, wearily eyeing the Doctor, and that's the first clue something is off. Her hair is much shorter than it was a couple of days ago, and there are lines on her face the Doctor doesn't remember being there. She looks stronger, too; grown into herself more. The Doctor is no good with faces, but she absolutely know what Time does to them. Her relief at recognising Yaz vanishes, replaced by a dread that makes her dizzy all over again. 

 

The Doctor reaches out a hand to confirm her suspicion, but Yaz draws back before she can make contact, eyes darkening. 

“What year is it Yaz?” The Doctor asks softly, almost pleading. The unease is making her skin crawl, sharp senses too expertly tuned to sudden shifts in Yaz’ composure. 

“you tell me, Doctor,” Yaz sighs, breaking eye contact. “I haven't seen you in sixteen years.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“Time shift,” the Doctor whispers, shocked. “Got so preoccupied I didn’t check  _ when _ I landed. I am so sorry, Yaz.”

Yaz shrugs and gets up, face neutral. “‘S alright. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me properly.” She makes her way to the kitchen, back turned to the Doctor. “Unless you want to go of course, which is fine.” 

“No,” the Doctor scrambles to her feet, pressing against the TARDIS for support. “I’d like to stay,” she rambles. “If that’s alright. With you. TARDIS is a bit all over the place currently, don’t fancy my chances.”

“Alright.” Yaz disappears round the corner, and the Doctor hears sounds of a tap turning on, then ceramics clinking in the sink. She takes a look round the dimly-lit room, notices the drawn curtains and feels guilt settle in her stomach.

“Did I wake you up?” She calls out, hesitantly taking a step forward to test her footing. “I really am sorry.”

“Nah, I wasn’t sleeping,” Yaz answers. She starts saying something else, but it is inaudible over the sound of the kettle boiling. 

The Doctor pushes her hair out of her eyes and takes another step. Feet stable on the floor; she considers her experiment in staying upright a success and walks over to the small dining table by the window opposite. 16 years. She shoots a quick, worried glance at the TARDIS, who doesn't acknowledge her. Her wonderful ship wouldn’t intentionally mess up her timeline, she's pretty sure. At least not without good cause, or regeneration energy sending them both half mad. Neither of which were present when it all went wrong. 

 

“Here you go, sugar's just in there, as much as you like.” Yaz sets down two mugs and points at a beautifully decorated little box on the edge of the table. “Out of biscuits, sorry.”

The Doctor nods her thanks and dumps a small mountain of sugar into one of the mugs before taking a sip. Yaz has sat down, hands curled around her own mug. A slither of a smile appears as she studies the Doctor, who stills under her gaze.

“You look exactly the same. Everything about you is just-” she gestures vaguely in the Doctor's general direction, trying to capture what she's failing to say. “exactly the same.” it comes out a whisper, and she takes a sip of her tea to hide her face. “how long since you last saw me?” 

The Doctor fidgets with the spoon in her mug, an ornate silver little thing that matches the sugar box. 

“six hours and twenty-five minutes,” she answers the table. “Dropped you three off, went for a quick stroll on Thessia, came back. Or tried to. Had a few turbulence issues in Thessia's temporal air space and then  _ she- _ ” the Doctor nods towards the TARDIS behind her; “got all wonky and chucked me out.”

“What was the last thing we did?” 

The Doctor blinks, not sure what to make of the interruption. She looks pointedly at the mug in her hand, demonstratively taking a sip to make sure Yaz has understood her answer. Several new theories as to what could've gotten to the TARDIS have made themselves known, and she'd like to go over them now.

“I should've been clearer,” Yaz sighs. “Sorry. What was the last place we went to? Last thing we did, in your timeline?” 

Oh. “Dalek wanted to take over the world on New Year's Day.” the Doctor answers. “Then you all went home for New Year’s.” 

Something passes in Yaz eyes before she can hide her face behind another sip of tea, and the Doctor's hearts sink. She sits down opposite Yaz and squeezes her friend's hand in hers, jewelry digging into her skin. 

“I can't know what's going to happen,” she says softly. Yaz's emotions are loud under her skin, and the Doctor thanks the stars for this body's increased telepathic control. “Whatever it is, you cannot tell me. Not because I do not want to know, but because I’m not sure what will happen if I do.” 

“I know,” Yaz swallows, still avoiding eye-contact. She opens her mouth and immediately closes it again, choosing to drink some tea instead. The Doctor registers Time relaxing around them; easing the pressure in the back of her head. Beautiful, practical, sensible Yazmin Khan; the immediate danger of timeline chaos has passed. 

The Doctor lets go of Yaz's hand and lets out a slow, long breath. “Thank you.” 

Yaz shrugs, draining the last of her tea. Her eyes are glossy when she stands to put her mug in the sink. The Doctor doesn’t press the issue. 


	4. Chapter 4

“So, shall I make up the sofa for you then?” Yaz asks airily as she turns on the tap to wash up her mug. She turns it upside down on the draining board and leans against the counter, facing the Doctor but still avoiding her eyes.   
The Doctor fidgets with the little spoon in her hand, accidentally sloshing the dregs of her tea on the table. She flashes Yaz an apologetic smile and only just manages to avoid the dish rag her friend throws at her face in response. Neither of them say anything while the Doctor wipes the table, meticulously cleaning the underside of her mug to avoid any tea circles drying into the wood. If she jogged her memory enough she could probably write a stupid Gallifreyan joke with the mug prints, but she’s not sure it’d be appreciated.  
“Doctor?” Yaz asks, in that gentle tone of voice she uses when she knows the Doctor hasn’t heard a word of what’s she’s just said, and decides to check in on her. “You know you can stay, right? Like, I’m not about to chuck you out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
Kind, caring Yazmin Khan. The Doctor long since suspected her friend to be too good for her.   
“Thanks Yaz,” she smiles warmly. “I’m grateful.” 

Yaz looks away, then catches herself and carefully untangles the dish rag from the Doctor's hands before she worries it to a thread.  
“Wanna see the rest of the house?” she asks before another heavy silence can set in. The Doctor's face lights up like she's been told she won the biggest prize in the universe.  
“Yaz's place? Wouldn't miss it for the world.” Yaz shakes her head with a fond smile and gestures to the door leading to the rest of the house.  
“After you.”   
The Doctor practically skips into the hallway, cataloguing the minutiae of human life.  
“A plant!” She exclaims, picking up a haggard Tesco-bought succulent sitting by itself near the front door. “Love a good plant.” She brings it up to her nose and inhales deeply. “Good old Sheffield air. There really is nothing like it.” 

She sticks out her tongue.

Her eyes flick to Yaz.

She puts down the plant. 

“Good boy,” she whispers, patting it fondly on one of its sad green-brown shoots. “keep going.” The plant says nothing.

 The Doctor's attention wanders to the photo of a toddler on the wall. “Who's that?”   
“Someone I’d like you to meet.” Yaz grabs the Doctor’s sleeve and pulls her across the hallway, to a door with a wooden letter ‘P’ on it that clicks open softly when Yaz presses down on the door handle. She steps inside, the Doctor following reverently behind her. A cot sits against the opposite wall, toys and books scattered all around it. A star shaped night light guards against unwanted dreams, enfolding the room in a soft amber glow.   
“Doctor, this is Prem,” Yaz says softly, reaching down to cradle the child’s head. “He’s my son.”

 The Doctor stands transfixed. She watches her friend fuss over the sleeping kid, and feels her whole universe narrow down to the slither of time she currently occupies.  
“Oh Yaz,” she breathes. She reaches out, and after a nod from Yaz, touches her index and middle finger to Prem’s temple. His presence is warm like Yaz’; cocooned in sleep and full of infinite, endlessly unfolding possibilities. The Doctor looks up at Yaz, eyes bright with undisguised affection, and for once, finds herself lost for words. Already Time’s talons are poking at her timeline, seeking out the bits where Yaz exists within it and assessing how best to erase this untimely meeting. Her knowledge of Prem's existence compromises the state of flux younger Yaz is in; and Time does not take lightly to such an offence. Every moment she stays is another potential future denied forever; another random decision turned into a predetermined path. 

 And still, she takes Prem in her arms when he wakes a short while later; his tiny hand curling against her neck as she walks up and down the room to soothe him. His brand new mind is so bright against her own and she feels unfathomably ancient.   
“It'll go to his head, the way you look at him,” Yaz smiles. The Doctor has eyes only for the tiny human blowing spit bubbles into her coat collar, and she makes a silent vow to protect him like she couldn't do his namesake.


End file.
